Naturally enough, Lance was a great favorite with the ladies; every woman who saw him loved him more or less.  He was quite irresistible when, in addition to his handsome face and sweet temper, came the charm of being master of a grand old manor-house, with three thousand per annum.  No wonder that he was popular.  The only thing which troubled me about Lance was his marriage; I always feared it.  With his gay, passionate temperament, his universal admiration and chivalrous manner of treating the fair sex, it was certain that he would, sooner or later, fall in love and marry.  From what I knew of him, from the innate conviction of my own love, I felt sure that his marriage would be the hinge on which his whole life would turn.  I was very anxious about it, and talked to him a great deal about it when we were together.

“If you marry the right woman, Lance,” I said to him, “you will be one of the happiest and most successful men in the world; but if you should make a mistake, you will be one of the most miserable.”

“I shall make no mistake, John.  I know that somewhere or other the most adorable woman in the whole world is waiting for me.  I shall be sure to find her, and fall in love with her, marry her, and live happy forever afterward.”

“But you will be careful, Lance?” I said.

“As careful as a man can be; but, John, as you are so anxious, you had better choose for me.”

“No,” I replied.  “I made so great a mistake when I had to choose for myself that I shall never attempt it again.”

Circumstances happened that drew me over to America.  I had a large interest in some land there, and not caring about the trouble of it, I went over to sell it.  I succeeded in selling it to great profit, and as I liked America I remained there three years.  I sailed for America in the month of October, two or three weeks after the incident of the Chain Pier, and I returned to England after an absence of three years and seven months.  I found myself at home again when the lovely month of May was at its fairest.  During all that time only one incident of any note happened to me, or, rather, happened that interested me.  Lance Fleming was married.

He wrote whole volumes to me before his marriage, and he wrote whole volumes afterwards.  Of course, she was perfection—­nay, just a little beyond perfection, I think.  She was beautiful, clever, accomplished, and such a darling—­of course, I might be sure of that.  One thing only was wanted to make him perfectly happy—­it was that I should see his lady-love.  Her name was Frances Wynn, and he assured me that it was the most poetical name in the world.  Page after page of rhapsody did he write and I read, until at last I believed him, that he had found the one perfect woman in the world.

Lance wrote oftener still when I told him that I was coming home.  I must go at once to Dutton Manor.  I should find Dutton Manor an earthly Paradise, he said, and he was doubly delighted that I should be there in May, for in May it wore its fairest aspect.